I still stagger and fall. Of course I have that, it happens to me all the time, you just have to get very careful about it, because it’s inappropriate for an elderly chap to register authentically his feelings, you know, because they really could be interpreted, so you really have to get quite covert as you get older or you have to find some avuncular way of responding, but still, you just, really are just, you’re wounded, you stagger, and you fall.
—Leonard Cohen at 72
In 50 years, will I look at love with the same starry-eyed mysticism as I do now?
Will I be satisfied, having loved enough, requited and not?
In my dotage, will I be proud to say that I was adored once, too?
When my friends are gone and my hair is grey, and I ache in the places where I used to play, will I still stagger?
Will I still fall?
